Does It Come With a Vibrating Mouse...Cord Less?

Today was a special day for my daughter, Sergeant Mommy. She completed the order for her new computer. The only thing that would have made her happier would've been a vibrating mouse, cord less.

Not that there was anything wrong with the old computer except for it being ...gone. While they were preparing for the quick move, they had stored the already disassembled and boxed items in an empty home belonging to a friend. Destiny had renovated it for them, no charge. It kept her mind off of the separation anxiety that stalked her on cloven hooves.

When they went to gather the contents they found nothing externally amiss, the door locked tight. When they opened the door they were unpleasantly surprised. Someone had taken their computer, monitor, mouse and keyboard, speakers and CDRW with all the required cords, etc. They took their time; No doubt hoping that if everything looked as it was that perhaps the owners wouldn't notice the theft until it was too late to mess with authorities. It worked like a charm, almost. They still had a few days to go so they tied it all up in bureaucratic red tape, pretty as you please. The loss left them minus one very important marriage support device. The one with visual capabilities.

When you spend an extraordinary amount of your union on separate continents, communication is essential. The internet allows them a way to stay in contact. So on top of the electric company holding them at gun point and the theft, then having to make another unplanned purchase, they were down more than they would like, but they were plus their most trusted go-between, access to the world wide web and their happy place, Yahoo chat.

So I'm ashamed of the human beings that guiltlessly rob them and quite proud of the way they go to such great lengths to keep their marriage alive, family together and serve our country, without shooting anybody...in the USA anyways.
word count 331
2/24/2005 11:59 PM

How DID Your Testicles Get Inside Your Chest Cavity?

In some parts of the country the sweet perfume of early bulbs mingling with the aroma of earthy new grass encourages dreams of Spring. I have been anxious for Spring since last July. A normal year here finds suffocating heat in August that leaches the life out of everything, so naturally, when I feel it looming just the other side of tomorrow, I begin morning the loss of today before it's even gone. Like Saturday evenings were cause for a deep funk because I only had one day before returning to my hell, the evening shift at a particle board furniture factory where we pumped out high quality American crap by the thousands.

I already have narcissus shining brightly on the tips of low lime green stalks. For some reason, only one lone crocus broke through the straw mulch. I'm thinking those moles have been burrowing under my garden again. I know moles don't actually eat the roots of my flowers, but I also know that if they can uproot it, chew through it, or create a sink hole underneath it, they will. Going around the obstruction is not an option. I guess with a brain the size of a dirt granule and no eyes, that would make sense. Other years they have done in other bulbous beauties such as dainty Dutch iris, hyacinth, freesia, and practically anything else with a bulb. Mostly, they just vanish. I've tried digging around looking for them. What I discovered was a massive underground network of tunnels. It is always changing and I have had no luck with any method of de-mole-ing my garden. It seems the only deterrent is the resident pygmy lion pride. They find particular fun in digging up the larcenist little culprits and playing rugby with their little heads after a good row in the catnip. I guess even cats need to vent.

I've been watching the early bloomers preparing for their debuts. I've already had several opportune days in the garden. This morning as I gazed out the kitchen window over a strong cup of coffee, the sunshine and the growing expanse of green enticed me. I chugged down the road tar and threw on some sweats for a little pre-bloom grooming of my cherished speck of land. I wasn't greeted at the back door by Merlin or his finicky friends as per usual. So I stopped and took a deep breath before stepping off the porch. I quickly expelled the icy numbing, and very visible breath right back out...quickly, and turned tail and run back inside.

John came parading through in his skivvies, "You're out early.Get any gardening done?"

Me: Yep... it's nice out.

I knew he would step outside in nothing but his briefs. If he could get away with it, the man would never wear clothes, ever. Women would be putting their own eyes out just to be spared the horror. I just wanted to see how he planned on fishing his receded testicles out of his chest cavity.
word count 521
2/23/2005 11:10 PM

Sargeant Mommy Gets Robbed

I'm very proud of my daughter, she has been in the Army for 6 years. I call her Sergeant Mommy; a mother of two. Her husband is Air Force (14 years). She and her family made the move to Missouri so they could be near family while Lee is sent yet again, to Iraq for a year.

Naturally, this being a rural area, they rented a house for the temporary stay. For the first time since they were both stationed in Italy, they are living off base.

They arrived Friday, moved into their rental Saturday morning, started to reassemble their household Sunday, and took Daddy to the Airport Monday. Today, my daughter began the arduous task of handling all the utility what-nots.

She started out with the trash company. She flipped open the phone book and asked, "What would it be under? Trash?"

"I believe so", I answered.

She flipped to the T's and when she got down to the word 'trash', it said 'see rubbish or garbage'. So she turned to 'rubbish' and it said 'see garbage or trash'. We looked at each other, tossed the book and reached for the next phone book in the stack for the proper area. We found it, undeterred she made the call and realized she had no idea how to tell anyone to find the place for the trash pickup. It's a farm, and the roads are unmarked. So she struggled.

Destiny(Sergeant Mommy): You...uh...go...where are you...? Is from Nevada okay? That's pronounced Nuh-vAe-duh. No not Las Vegas, I'm in Mizz-oorie. Vernon County. Go West on 54, then South on 43 and then you take this dirt road....no, it's paved...a little...part of the way. It's in Moundville...yeah it's a town...tell them to keep their eyes on the right side of the road because if their looking left they'll miss it.

She had to stop about there and tell them to call the owners of the home because of the combination of farm roads and the fact that she feared even she may never find the house again.

Next she called the phone company and that went fairly smooth. She declined the added maintenance insurance since the phone line comes in through the window so having them come out to fix outlets was a mute point (the house is well over 100 years old).

Water was easy.

This is where it all hit rock bottom and left her wishing she'd stayed on a base. The electric company dropped the bomb, a devastating blow to the pocket book.

Destiny: $300 DEPOSIT!!!!!!!!!! Are you insane? Why?

She then relayed to me the reason, she hadn't paid an electric bill for a solid year anywhere. The Service handled the utilities. They have squeaky clean, excellent credit, have maintained phones all their adult lives, bought furniture, new cars, etc. but the electric company wants their last dregs of moving money for a $300 deposit.

Every family has had members that served in the Armed Forces. My Dad was Navy, my first husband Army, these two kids are both in the Services. Is this how we treat all the patriots these days? $300 deposits? Oh yeah, thanks for spending most of your life in the dust and being shot at and stuff for us, oh...and being separated all the time and moved at a moments notice, but we require a $300 deposit or you can forget plugging in your refrigerator for the baby's milk. Have a nice day.

Apparently the mistreatment didn't end with the Viet Nam Vets.
word count 572
2/22/2005 8:18 PM

Un-Farmy Thingys That Just Bite!

UN-FARMY THINGYS THAT JUST BITE!

A typical day for me is filled with the mundane. It's not necessarily a bad thing, or a boring thing. If it was so boring I wouldn't be having to squeeze in a few minutes at 3 a.m. to do a little writing before bed. Farm life is far from idle. I should know, I watch Farmer John work his hiny off all day long. Boy, I wouldn't want to be him. He has absolutely no hiny left to work off. It's weird. Whereas, I have ample behind, enough for both of us. It doesn't mean I do nothing all day, it just means that there's no jogging involved and I have an overactive cortisol secretion.
Today wasn't consumed by farmy thingys, just full of time consuming boners.

I was printing away (I'm a writer) and I noticed the pages were inconsistent, I was running out of ink. Bummer. So I had to go down to my office supply center (the basement) and find the right refill kit. I have an old dresser I keep that sort of stuff in. It's overflowing with a wide variety of cartridges for all the major makes and some rarer models. I go through the printers. They last on an average of just under year(I keep two at a time). They should tell you right up front that you'll have to replace it right after the warranty runs out but we'll go there another time. Another thing they don't tell you is that the next printer you get will require an entirely different animal and that all those cartridges you have will be discontinued. Hence, the refill kits!
I've been running frantically (not jogging) trying to get ready for my daughters family's arrival from the potato state. They're moving out for a year while hubby is in Iraq...again.
With two small boys I have much to rearrange. My house is not exactly kid proof. It's more of a flea market motif.

In my hurried state I grabbed a black ink bottle (I thought) and came up and injected that puppy full and replaced it and resumed printing. Something was wrong, very wrong. It didn't look black....totally. It wasn't producing clean black print on the crisp white page, it was more of a bruising affect. I hit 'cancel' and took another look at that bottle. I got the 'HP' right, but it said b. l. u. e. Oops. There went another cartridge. Good thing I had one more but...drat! It was empty-ish. It needed filled. Okay, so I'll get some aerobics in after all. Down the stairs I went again only this time I put my glasses on and reread the label so many times I felt I was slipping into the Adrian Monk mode.

Me: B. L. A. C. K....black. That says b..l..a..c..k.. black, not blue. Okay....HP....good. Let's see models...hmmm, there it is...good. Got the right one. YES...black-black-black...not blue. Needle....nee-dle.........needle? WHERE'S THE NEEDLE!!! Crap....

Eventually, I got it together. All of it. Happy with myself and all the paraphernalia in my arms necessary to perform the dirty deed I returned to the land of light (upstairs) and to my desk with all the neat piles of pages waiting to be completed. I popped the little rubber stopper off of a partial bottle and peppered the entire work area and all those pages.

Usually, when I do something absolutely moronic I just walk away and compose myself. Today I was pressed for time, I had multiple deadlines AND relatives coming. So I now had a bluish-black cartridge (not enough to make me pop a cork) and three stacks of work for the shredder and black ink speckled across everything else. Not something you can afford to walk away from for any reason.

I got it all cleaned up and bagged the cartridge and marked it in big huge words 'CUSTOM MIX'. I just finished fixing everything else I messed up and wouldn't you know...it's after 1 am. I'm early! The last three months have had me up till 3:30 a.m.-ish most nights. Too bad you can't lose weight by going without sleep, I'd be back in those size 5's.
word count 681
2/17/2005 1:4 AM

There's Pigmy Lions in the Catnip!

Today was another gorgeous day. I couldn't make myself stay focused on the have-to-do's, not until I had my fill of the warm sunshine and got my fix, the key to my sanity, being on my knees in the garden, yanking those early weeds and feeling the moist soil begin to cake between my fingers. Somehow, everything else melts away. Almost everything.

The cats got goofy over the catnip that had already put on leaves and a heady aroma and that is hard to ignore. All the farm felines were stoned, which I find hilarious given their otherwise somber transient natures. I chuckled right up until one of those red-eyed wonders rolled underneath me and reached up and swiped at a button on my blouse and got my belly instead. The party was over; I shoved the nuisance aside and it willingly toppled over into the catnip patch for another go round.

The resident god of frolic (my dog Merlin) cocked his head and moved in a little closer to try and figure out what was so fascinating about a bunch of leafy green stuff that to him wasn't even significant enough to coax a courtesy urination;Not even worth lifting the leg over. His head lay to rest on his paws as his eyes followed the movements of the languishing pigmy lion pride as I went back to work in the thyme patch. Everything was perfect as it always is inside the chicken wire walls of my sequestered garth of sensory delight.

I read that oftentimes we don't appreciate life until it is time for it to end. Much the same can be said of a beautiful day, or practically anything for that matter.

I'm not sure exactly when it happened, but I have an inkling that it might have been around the time my mortality caught up with me in the form of a disagreeable reflection one morning in the bathroom mirror that caused a double take. I didn't like that it wasn't my imagination. I was getting old. At least in my eyes. After the usual panicked attempts at recapturing what I'd lost, I decided it would be healthier and a mess more fun to just get comfortable with it. I decided to experience everything. Not just go about my daily life but to actually take notice, to memorize all my favorite things, and to see what kind of pleasures I may be able to create. Nothing grandiose, just good.

I make discoveries everyday that challenge everything I thought I knew. That is so cool! Getting older, and wiser is so much more fun than being young, insecure and incurably blonde!
Life is pure poetry.
word count 445
2/15/2005 7:46 PM

Dumbass-penny pinchin'-tight ass-goat ropin'-redneck-hick-inbreds!

Some days the Tao eludes me. In the event that I am not making that connection, even remotely, which is typically the depth with which I understand the Taoist Quotes, I turn to one of many fun little books for my writing prompts. This one is from Life Lessons, by Robert C. Savage


Yesterday is gone;
Tomorrow is uncertain;
Today is here.
So use it!

Today was a beautiful day. Too Spring-like to remain indoors to perform those mundane, wearisome tasks of domestic bondage; cooking, cleaning, organizing, who needs them? I know where most of my stuff is and the stuff that I don't have a clue about? I've survived just fine not knowing where they were since I lost them, so why mess with a system that works? Let them remain in whatever dimension they've slipped into, at least for today.

A few weeks ago I dissected our abode into a workable grid for a systematic search. Some items mysteriously reappeared in places I had previously searched a dozen times, which leads me to believe I have house fairies. The remaining items on the stuff-I-think-I-still-own list that are yet unaccounted for will eventually be found accidentally, I'm sure, or will end up eulogized in one of my really bad poems.

Cleaning encompasses the whole put-things-where-they-should-be thing, which in turn means I have to find a proper place for the mischievous miscellany which is presently residing in the proper place for something else entirely different. My penchant for cataloging and categorizing, color coding and properly positioning in my pedantic microcosm is an endless shifting of nonessentials. It's my penance for those moments of haphazardly stuffing things out of site on those hurried or lackadaisical days.

As for cooking? I say "Let the dust bunnies fend for themselves!"

It's been a mild winter this year, but still cold enough to keep me in most of the time so Merlin (my dog), Freya (the feline matron of the farm) and I went for a stroll. To our dismay we happened upon a backhoe tearing down the old farm school to the North of our property. There is an upside though, to every coin. The mother of all copperheads, perhaps the biggest ever sighted by us anyways, lived in there. Maybe it'll get buried for good. I've seen pythons that size before, but never a snake of the Americana poisonous variety.

Seeing a backhoe ripping through the thick stone walls and plopping the rough hewn stones into the back of an old dump truck was a sad thing to witness. So reckless, with no respect for the toiling farmers that built it over a hundred years ago. It meant nothing to those two dirty men, it was merely salvage. Some fool thought he'd build a fireplace and thought the huge sandstone cubes would work nicely. I've got news for the jackass, it'll crumble. We tore out just such a beast from this structure years ago. It was a terrible disaster that the previous owners simply lived with. They stuffed rags in the widening cracks between the stones and the walls of the house. The heat, we were told, shouldn't have affected the outer, decorative stone. Wrong. There were many widening gaps even between the stones themselves.

Another person may have felt it was their duty to inform the men of the futility of the pending Titanic fireplace. Not me. I felt it was my duty to allow them to reap what they were sowing.The flagrant disrespect for our historical landmarks which were not yet immortalized as such by the proper collectives of chattering old women was shameful. Merlin whined to be allowed to show his disapproval in a canine tirade. Freya ducked into the thickets and peered out warily. I just turned and walked away, muttering words like, dumbass-penny-pinchin'-tight-ass-goat ropin'-redneck-hick-inbreds! Merlin gave me a psychoanalytical look and followed it up with a let-it-go grunt as he hunkered down for the walk home.

Yesterday wasn't completely gone as long as those walls stood. The occasional old-timer would stop by to see what had become of these old places. The daffodils and Iris ever faithful to the school grounds would rise and bloom each Spring and the sweet smell would mingle with the honeysuckle, forest floor and stream out back. They'd stop and smile and breath deep. Even I would swear I heard children laughing on occasion when hunting mushrooms there. This year the area is ripped asunder, the flower bulbs ground under by the heavy wheels of the backhoe.
Somehow, I don't think the literal manifestation of "So use It" was what the author meant, but what can you expect from the type of man that thinks good manners means spitting into a cup instead of onto the ground.
word count 782
2/15/2005 1:38 AM

Valentine Gestalt

Di-a-monds...That'll Shut 'Er up

It being the one year anniversary of this poem I felt it befitting for today's entry. That and the fact that I was too busy cleaning house to come up with something new. I do get lost in my projects.

As one could guess by reading this, last Valentines sucked. The day after was okey-dokey by me. After receiving this poem from me he bought me a new sparkely and some White Diamonds perfume to go with it.

We shall see what this Valentines brings. I hope it isn't another delayed reaction. Guilt presents are okay, but the best ones are the ones the guy gives you because he wants to make your day perfect, no strings, no guilt, just pure perfect love. Then again, the resale value is much higher on diamonds and gold.

Valentine Gestalt

Another year gone
And Valentines here,
My heart hits rock bottom
As I find in my chair,
The envelope plucked
From the 99 cent rack,
Filled with lottery scratch offs
I've learned not to like.

No long stem red roses,
Perfume, nightie's or pearls,
No diamonds to say
What you can't say in words,
No sweets for the sweet in a box
Shaped like a heart,
No jewelry inscribed
“’Till death us do part”.

I pinch out a smile
As I finger the card,
Hiding the pain
That I'm feeling inside,
I stammer and stutter
An audible “Thanks”,
I fight back the tears
That should take it's place.

No “Baby I love you,
Let's go out on a date.
Forget what I said,
I think you're first rate!”
No “Sweetheart I want
To make mad passionate love,
Let's shut out the world,
For your happiness I hold
Nothing else above.”

A loveless sentiment
Meant to be funny,
Delivered by you
Is to me far from sunny.
No “Honey, I love you more than words can describe.”
It's just signed “John”.
You bolt for your ride
And thank God that you're working
Another year slides on by
that you won't have to love me
Or care
... if I cry.
By Susan Bennett
Thursday, February 12, 2004
word count 316

Cialis Smile and the Goodyear G-Spot

Everybody uses delivery services at one time or another. When you live in a rural area, it doesn't take long before you figure out that it's much more economical to just do much of your non-sensical shopping online. Things like techie goodies, musician supplies, heat seeking frisbees and other entertainments are abundant and much cheaper and can be on your door step in 2 clicks of the mouse. That World Wide Web, amply named, is a junk-aholic's utopia. Every purchase you make means that some delivery company will have to make a very long drive to deliver it. Sometimes I buy something and click on "Fed Ex" just so I can get a good laugh at their expense. They go to great lengths to try and not come out here.

Since moving out to the farm, I've become a bit of a delivery service connoisseur. Getting stuff in the mail is great fun. It can develop into an addiction like gambling or sadomasochism. I'm sure that someone will start a support group for internet shoppers sooner or later.

Shopper:"Hi, my name is Nimrod, and I'm an Ebayer."

Support Group: "Hi Nimrod."

Therapist: "Well Nimrod, tell us what brings you to our 12 step program.

"Shopper: "My girlfriend says I have a shopping problem just because I got a little second mortgage on my house to buy the authentic licensed limited edition collectors reproduction of the actual pencil that was chewed by Vin Diesel in XXX".

HSN and QVC are mutant strains of the same addictability chromosonal defect only affecting those missing the common sense gene. These individuals are also susceptible to the Soap Opera Syndrome which brings on acute attacks we'll call delusional benders. It's during these episodes that they lose all ability to differentiate between reality and daytime TV.

Sometimes I wonder if I don't buy stuff online just so's I'll get a little company. Being fused to the keyboard tends to put a crimp in my social life. That is, it would if I had one.

Out here I am only aware of four ways in which my purchases may arrive, they being the following:

1. The United States Postal Service (USPS); They have to come here everyday anyway so they are amiable and easy to work with. They offer services such as package pickup and all the accouterments. They'll even bring things right in the house for you, unless you have a black dog. Yellow dogs however are perfectly acceptable.

2. UPS , not to be confused with the latter. They all wear brown and drive brown trucks so we can tell them apart. You pay a higher price for the special services but dogs are not an issue and they'll even go the extra mile, like haul those really heavy items anywhere you want them, especially if you're not wearing a bra.

3. DHL; I have no idea what that stands for, I didn't even know they existed until I bought something from Overstock.com (a popular discount haunt). These people are magicians. I believe David Copperfield is their CEO. I ordered a guitar one morning and buy 2 pm it was being delivered to my front door. I don't know how they did it, I don't know why they did it, I certainly didn't pay for immediate delivery. The truck pulled into the drive and this guy with a Cialis smile hopped up to the door and handed me the box and was gone before my dog found his Goodyear G-spot.

4. Then there's Fed Ex,which is not who I'd call for expedited delivery. They spend a lot of advertising dollars to impress upon the delivery impaired public that they are "The" express delivery alternative. Maybe so, in the great metropolis, but in our neck of the woods they hold the record for delivery faux pas. They get very creative with the excuses. I had one item sent to me and returned twice before they sent it a third time and actually came out here. They used the whole barrage of reasons why it was undeliverable. All lies I tell you, lies! I think I would know where I am when I'm home all day waiting for them and calling from my phone, here, and I'm told by the person on the other end of the phone at Fed Ex headquarters that the driver was just here and I'm not home. If I wasn't really here when I thought I was here calling from my phone on my front porch surveying all the roads leading here, then where in fact was I really? Could it be that even though I have never watched a soap opera that I have fallen prey to the Soap Opera Syndrome in an evolved form? One triggered by delivery service debacles?

word count 7452/12/2005 2:36 AM

Fairly Dumb-Assed

It never hurts to update your states revised No-Call-List. New glitches emerge from the proposition cesspool on occasion. We voters aren't usually aware of these little clauses that are discretely attached to an otherwise harmless looking check box on our ballot. Apparently, enough of us Missourians voted "yes" on...something. After my emphatic delivery of the good sense with which I backed my vote, I felt ...fairly dumb-assed. Yes, I had helped write in a clause to allow phone companies to call with sales pitches and survey calls(sales pitches incognito) and non-profit organizations can call at dinner time and just beg for food.

Since I re-upped our standing, I haven't gotten another of those calls (knock on oak-colored-laminate-particle-board-wood).

Another little thing, I got one of those emails from a friend, that sneakily doesn't really tell you what your in for, only that someone that supposedly loves you wants you to see it. I went to check it out, since it was someone I loved and discovered a really tiny clause under the "retrieve message" that said "By clicking here you agree to let us sell your personal information to every dick with a buck and receive an endless barrage of junk emails that are sure to fill your box every time you download, AND you agree to let us call you at dinner time and beg for food."
I bowed out of that site quickly, if not gracefully. So, I have no clue what that was, but I figure, I didn't know I needed it before I got the email so I guess I can continue to live without it now. I got dumb-assed twice in one day.

I believe that if we were given an outright concise option to vote on whether or not we, the people, want to give those telemarketing companies the freedom to bother us at home, I think the questionnaire would look something like this:

How do you feel about giving the tele-marketers and other money wholes the freedom to call you anytime they like at home or at work or even while youre doing the nasty?
[check the circle next to your choice].

O a. Sure! I'm lonely and will talk their ears off.
O b. No thanks, may they burn in hell.
c. Yeah okay, I wouldn't want to miss out on an opportunity to give my money away to complete high pressure salesman strangers.
(still looking for that circle? No check spot available on option c. because if you think you want to put your mark here you have an IQ of 12 and it's for your own protection).

word count 453
2/11/2005 1:46 AM

The Lemming and Saint Peter

Tao Quote of the Day:

"Even the journey of a thousand miles, begins with a single step"

I did a little wandering today, a little backwards from my usual routine of write-first-visit-later. I decided to snub the old slave driver (Me) today and do it my way (alter ego Me) so I logged on and revisited some interesting blogs maintained by interesting people.
One gentle spirit addressed the "Why do people settle?" question.

My answer was easy, "Fear. They are afraid of failure, afraid of change and afraid that if left to their own, they won't like the company."~Cerebral Gas, Jan 15, 2005

Oh go ahead and tell me I'm wrong. I could have gone on and on with all the phobias, disorders, neurosis and all the reasons why it's their parents fault, but if you wanted to hear that you wouldn't be skimming blogs, you'd be in your therapists waiting room arguing with some obsessive-compulsive over how many times you should tap a door knob before turning it. I will offer to help you out a little so you'll feel as comfortable with me as you would with your HMO Psychologist, you can pay me...only if it will make you feel better. How does that make you feel?
I don't have those fear hang-ups. I am the type to walk first, think later ( Which can rack up quite a bill in divorce court fee's). Because, you see, if I take that first step, then out of habit I will follow thru with the subsequent steps, either until I reach my destination, get a cramp, or go careening off a cliff in a wild Lemming run into the ocean where I drop like a rock to the sandy bottom. No matter how you look at it, I will have gotten past that uncomfortable moment quickly, and before you know it I am no longer at the end of an era, rather the beginning of a new one. Either that or I get a cramp and say "screw it", or I've sunk like a rock to my watery grave and then I'm Saint Peters problem...in which case I'm back to the beginning a new adventure thing, only my dress size will no longer be an issue and my feet won't hurt.
So no matter how you look at it, I win...unless I get a cramp.

word count 390
2/9/2005 10:8 PM

Mata Hari and the Harper Valley PTA

Tao Quote of the Day:

Intelligent people know others.
Enlightened people know themselves.
You can conquer others with power,
But it takes true strength to conquer yourself.

I used to be an obsessive-compulsive. I obsessed about some of the strangest things. For example, perfection. Perfect clothes, perfect shoes, perfectly ratted to its max 80's hair and the perfect body for the skin- tight gaudiness of the day. Perfectly clean and immaculately attired children that matched perfectly, even though there was 2 1/2 years difference. Lucky for my frail reality, my perfectly matched toe-heads, stayed nearly the same size; Which made finding those twinzy outfits easier. Trying to dress all three of us the same was harder to do. I would end up looking like a pimped lollipop, or my daughters would come out looking like child porn stars. So the notion was short lived. In fact, it never made it out of the house.

We learned to live with our differences. My girls were pretty in pink and French braids, while I turned heads at the Harper Valley PTA , a Mata Hari in stilettos.

I don't think any single moms actually start out looking so different from the K Mart Queens you find attending the bake sale booth at the school fair, except that they possess a keener sense of individualism. It's the imposed alienation that transforms. Somehow being the whispered about and pointed at, and being treated like you are in fact sleeping with every woman's husband which acts as the catalyst that brings out the volatile seductress.

Every snide remark or unfriendly glare results in tighter, shorter skirts, more cleavage. It's like washing an Angora sweater in very hot water. You get the same results, only the sweater has less to prove.

My nemesis was the entire married community and they detested the existence of me in all my Vanna Whiteness. All I had done to rate their disapproval was to live through the divorce. Apparently, discarded wives have no right to draw another breath once the divorce decree is final. It hurt, but most of all it made me angry.

One day I accidentally stumbled upon the realization that they were creating a monster. Once I got a grip on myself, and toned back down, yet still clinging fiercely to my desire for perfection, I turned to flaunting the freedom issue. I no longer felt the need to be bound by social conformity. they resented my affirmations of singularity, I resented their Katherine Smith wardrobe and their Martha Stuart obsessions. I dared push the lines of acceptability with my Nike-No-Fear attitude.

I eventually outgrew the need to retaliate against the pressures of my peers with belligerent good looks. I began finding great entertainment in dissecting each harbinger of sociopathic married ladies sodality. It's okay if they want to keep their distance. It forced me into exploring myself thoroughly. What I found surprised me.

I found
that I can tell more about a person in five minutes than most people want to you find out in five years.
I have developed an appreciation for all that makes me indelibly me, and I'm okay with all of it.
I have no desire to hold power over anyone for any reason.
above all else, I enjoy command performances of self-improvement.
word count 541
2/8/2005 9:1 PM

What Happens When Malibu Barbie Grows Up

Tao Quote of the Day:

If you show people exciting things,
you will make them covetous and greedy.

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN MALIBU BARBIE GROWS UP

I had a doctor appointment today and since I became semi-retired that's usually a reason to treat myself. Especially after I'm weighed in and receive all those praises from the resident nurses.

Nurse: "You don't LOOK like you weigh 200 pounds! You couldn't be bigger than a 14! Your very dense".

Me: "That was supposed to be a compliment ...right?"

Like being a 200 pound size 14 is a good thing. And that word, dense, that could be taken two ways but the blank gaze of admiration behind the remark makes me wonder if she was that stupid, or that smart. Either way I felt it would be in my best interest to digress. Pissing off the people that decide just how much of that regulated rat poison to prescribe could be very bad.
I went to my usual haunts and dropped loads of dough. The rest of the year my money slowly trickles from my grasp but in the winter...well, it's like I go through with drawls.

Me: "I haven't been in a store in two weeks! TWO WEEKS...take my money, PLEASE!"

Store Clerk: "Well, alright then. Two dozen Moon pies, green lipstick and a bag of rocks, that'll be...$2.345.09."

Me; "W-e-l-l, okay, but what cost nine cents?"

You see, in the Mid-West (I don't know why the need for the hyphen) this time of year, outings are greatly reduced if you're prone to chapping below the -145 degree mark. So when the weather is nice (the Twilight Zone theme song echoes in my brain at the suggestion), like today, I'm apt to dally all the way home. And since my doctors office sits on the infamous Battle of Carthage site and not here in Hog Waller behind the feed store like everybody else’s, I have many miles of possible detours I can take betwixt and between.

The irony of my "healer" doing business on a site of infamous carnage is quirky at best. I'm just glad that amputation is no longer considered a cure-all.

I then took myself out to eat at the Steak-O-Rama on the main drag and played table hockey with the medium-well puck I was served while I watched the buffet patrons artfully pile their plates with all the fatty-fried-carburetor foods some wiener named Atkins says will add fluff to your fluff.

It brought back memories of the college cafeteria where you were given custard cups for the food bar. We took it as a challenge, there were great pantheons of celery and egg slices, that held back an artfully piled bit of eye candy at the starving artist table. That was where you could find me, playing Jenga with my masterpiece of modern culinary cuisine (all the raw vegetables and pickles you could get into that custard cup). Eating it took as much ingenuity as building it did. Many times my Vesuvian mound would erupt and all would begin falling to the paper napkin I had opened up underneath it (just in case), the only thing holding some of it together was the volcanic flow of Catalina dressing.

The cruelty of offering an all-you-can-pile-in-a-custard-cup food bar at a college cafeteria most definitely made more than just I succumb to a covetous admiration of those architectural students and their erections.

Ah, those were the good old days. Now I remember why I was a size 5.

word count 575
2/7/2005 11:28 PM

Residual Mocha-chino Rush

Tao Quote of the Day:

In ancient times there were great Taoist Sages. Their way of living was so deep, so subtle, it cannot be directly explained. Instead, here is how they looked:
Cautious, as if crossing the ford of a stream in winter.

I have no idea what that means, and I don't find any bits of wisdom tucked discreetly between the lines. It did however bring up the whole 'look of caution' thing. I haven't been able to shake that feeling of fear and frustration from having to argue with a deaf man over whether or not what I heard was a tornado or lightening. I finally got the last word after I refused to come up from the basement while he stood on the porch, yelling down to me "You gotta see this!"
I answered, "Don't tell me, could it be... a tornado? DUH!"
For some reason, 'duh' works neatly as a last word.

RESIDUAL MOCHA-CHINO RUSH

My sleep habits are somewhat erratic. By that I mean sleep is not something I am predisposed to. Most people grow out of the I-can't-sleep-because-I'm-afraid-that-I'll-miss-out-on-something syndrome. I didn't. Life is full of surprises, some good, others, not so good, yet they all carry with them a sort of addicting amped-up euphorian feel. Kind of like one of those $50 latte's from the foo-foo coffee counter.

In my present mid-life bulge, I attribute the rush not to the adrenaline fix life used to feed me, it's more of an involuntary secretion from the residual stock-pile of mocha-chino-espresso-lattes I carry around in my fatty tissues.

Last night I fell right off to sleep, but like all good things my R.E.M. was interrupted abruptly and was ended by a terror stricken me that just realized in my full color (yeah, I don't care what they say, I've never dreamed in black and white) dream that I had conjured a tornado and it was heading straight for me and I didn't have the forethought to allow myself to do that flying thing I do in other dreams. I think they call that lucite dreaming; When you are aware of your dream. Much better than formica. Sucked to be me I'll tell ya, standing there with my cane and legs of lead, like Barbie BEFORE she got the bendable legs. I was standing in the typical Mid-Western town with all the little shops all stuck together like town houses, only their rent is cheaper, and nowhere to hide.

Lucky for me, what I thought was that ever familiar freight train noise, was just the old geezer across the hall chug-chugging along in in blissful slumber. It did not emanate from Kansas. That state is always spittin' twisters!

I never did get back to sleep, so I figured, why not recharge my fatty tissues and run off at the keyboard like I do, oh so often? So I slipped out of bed and into my Tweetie Bird slippers and made myself some luscious French Vanilla l-o-v-e handles...extra sweet.

word count 495
2/6/2005 10:28 PM

Attack of the Pod People

Tao Quote of the Day:

"Even a nine story terrace began as a single basket of earth."

When I was a lot younger, between career goals and dating an Architect in the making, I took a class with him to learn architectural rendering. Why I stuck with it as long as I did, I still don't know. I take that back; yes I do, he was cute and he thought I was a goddess.

As soon as I saw the rest of the class come filing in, lifeless, pasty complexions, dragging in like zombies, dressed in dark colors, predominantly black, I felt like I was amidst "The Pod People" and I knew I didn't belong, but hey, there were lots of colorful paints involved so I stayed around for the finger painting.

Those Pod people made me uneasy though. Hatched from giant gooey egg shaped things that attached to their intended replication model by an umbilical cord busy sucking the life out the doofus that was drawn to it out of moronic curiosity (without which, no B movie would have a plot). The thing would hatch, and ta-da...identical replicant! That's what they were, they had to be. Nobody looks like that REALLY.

I was thinking, maybe I shouldn't have watched that movie a second time. I whispered to my beau, "If the professor looks like Donald Sutherland, we bolt".

Do I have a point? Yes. Here goes...Even a D in architectural rendering begins with a single date with your brothers friend.

If I had a basket of earth for every bad choice I've made, I'd be filthy-dirty rich!
word count 265
2/6/2005 0:50 AM

Junk-aholic Juggernauts

Tao Quote of the day:

"Hoarders are destined for a great loss."

The first thing that comes to mind in reference to this quote is...DUH. If you are a collector like myself, you are an incurable hoarder in some form. My form has taken on a somewhat fluffy shape since I peaked at 40-ish. However, the things I hoard vary greatly in form and value. Some things I collect have little monetary value, but I think they're cool. so that's good enough for me; Junk like shoe horns, can openers, rocks. If the great hoard eliminator (tornado) breezed through our place I would succumb quickly to the pummeling I'd get from my own mélange of junk way before the twister itself ever reached its efficacious climax, robbing me of a justifiable conniption fit.

Being the junk-aholic juggernaut that I am I would soon find myself in retrogression, quickly replacing all my irreplaceable treasures. I would rebuild the family edifice with the inclusion of a rostrum for the antiquities literati to come pay homage to my collection of reclaimed refuse of days gone by.

So, the way I look at it, hoarders may be destined for great losses, but if they keep those insured values high and those deductibles low they can also be in for great compensation as well.

Global Warming; Smaller Rats, Transexual Turtles

Tao Quote of the Day;

"The world is a sacred vessel,It should not be meddled with.It should not be owned.If you try to meddle with it,You will ruin it.if you try to own it,You will lose it."

There's a lot of concern being expressed these days about global warming. Even I concern myself with what sort of world my grand kids will have in their future. I've been doing a little research. In fact, I read that the North American overall temperatures have increased by about 1 degree in the last century. That breaks down to an unfathomably small percent of a percent of a percent per day that I can't even comprehend the math involved. That doesn't mean it's not important. it just means I suck at math.

On one chart I saw that the State of Arizona increased by 3 degrees. So Phoenix could very well be the Hell of the future. Not that it's a picnic now.

"Sinners shall be cast down into the everlasting flames of Phoenix...blah-blah-blah"Do-to-her-an-me 30-06

People will be saying things like, "Burn in Phoenix!"

According to many scientists, by the end of the 21st Century we could be looking at an increase from 2.5 to 10.4 degrees because of the anthropogenic greenhouse gases(human emissions). Time to buy stock in Bean-O.

The way I figure it, if I hang in there for another 50,000 years at 1 degree per century, that stock in Coppertone could make me a very wealthy woman.. On the other hand, if the centenary data escalates at the projected maximum of a 10.4 x's that of each century that came before...in 200 years the temp could raise as much as 108.16 degrees? I'm thinkin' if we initiate a mandatory birth control enforcement we could cut the total collateral damage down dramatically. On the oft chance that nobody votes for that option, may I suggest government spending being more focused on replacing fossil fuels with environmentally friendly options like tapping into the limitless energy of the kangaroo rat for instance. Then again, Bermanns Rule of the evolution of body mass reduction according to escalating temperate climates in Kangaroo Rats and Zooplankton might make the Gerbil a more feasible replacement for the diminishing body mass of the diminutive Kangaroo Rat given it's shrinking into nonexistence.

There are other theories to consider as well, such as the one by that guy named after a cheese that says that global warming alters the behavioral patterns in the affected life forms such as Edith's Checker Spotted Butterfly's population which has begun migrating northward. How awful! Soon they will be seen in...I'm not even sure where they are supposed to be, let alone where they are moving to. That little tidbit was not mentioned in the study that I pilfered, but there would be checkered butterflies where ever that is.

Something else I found interesting was the way a given temperature at a certain point of gestation in turtles affects the sex of the embryo. Some person with a name something like Janis Ian (isn't that a pop star from the 70's?) or Jen-Zen figured that out. That's what I want my hard earned money going toward. I'm going to give half my income, that comes to about $2.43, to the study of X and Y chromosomes in turtles because turtles are cute and I'm a dufus. So, if say, the overall soil temperature reaches 223.16 ( that's around what I figure it'll be in 200 years at 10.4 multiplied), will that make the turtles hatch all males? Or all females? Somehow, I don't see how that would matter, because if the ground was that darn hot we'd all be eating poached turtle eggs either way and they probably taste the same.

So, you see, that on the plus side, we could be seeing milder temperatures in the future winter months here in the Mid-West(I refer to it as sweater-weather); on the down side, it won't last long before any sun exposure at all will result in the painful death by the "flash-frying-effect" due to no ozone. How positively apocalyptic!

Word Count 688

2/3/2005 7:25 PM

This is Me 

My Boyfriend Haven (he says I'm his one true love). 

Looks Like Bat poop Ta Me

Tao Quote of the Day:
"Clay walls are moulded into a pot, but the usefulness of the pot lies in it's emptiness. ~ Lao Tzu"

My brother is an Ace Ventura fan. Whenever I get to missing him(he lives in Las Vegas, far-far-away from Hogwaller, Missouri) I dig the Ace Ventura movies out of the black hole (my linen closet/ movie cupboard). I usually call my boyfriend and ply him with the promise of hot-air popcorn, extra butter and all the pez and gummy bears he wants to come watch movies with me. That's what we did this last weekend.
We were having a great time. When Ace licked that guano bowl it got even better. Suddenly bat poop became the buzz words.

Half way through the movie I pulled out my present project, a clay sculpture of my niece, and started working.

Haven: Is that guano Grandma? It's all ober yer fingers. Ewe.

Me: No, it's clay.

Haven: Looks like bat poop ta me.

Me: Nope, but that popcorn bowl your lickin', now that's bat poop.

He smiled real big, like a dare and as soon as we broke eye contact he slid by and siddled up to the kitchen can and spit.

Me: is there something wrong with your popcorn?

Haven: Next time jus pour it straight inta my mout kay? I don't need a bowl grandma. Nope, tastes like guano.

Later on when it was time for a snack I pulled two bowls out of the cupboard and went fishing in the fridge for some fruit. As I let go of the grapes, the bowls were whisked away by a panic stricken munchkin. The grapes bounced and rolled. He darted across the kitchen scolding me.

Haven: NO GRANDMA! No bowls! You shouldn't eat outta those, you'll git poopy-breath.

Me: I have to put them in something

Haven: My mouth will be fine. Look (he says 'ah") it's open, jus drop'em in kay?

To a 4 year old that has watched Jim Carey lick a guano bowl, the usefulness of an empty bowl lies in it's staying empty and on the shelf where it can't give you bat poop breath.
.2/2/2005 1:47 AM
word count 349